


How to Disappear Completely

by agent_florida



Series: MPD Church [4]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Doppelganger, M/M, Rape, Sexual Torture, Sexual Violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-09
Updated: 2010-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/agent_florida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone Simmons thought he could rely on is gone. The only one left is Wash and his endless questions, questions Simmons knows he can’t answer. But Simmons is weak, and Wash is demanding, and everything breaks eventually.</p><p>PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Disappear Completely

It was official: Simmons was freaking out.  
  
The smell of blood and motor oil was clogging the air intake of his armor as he kneeled over Donut’s immobile suit. “Donut, no! Donut, are you okay? Come on, breathe, Donut, breathe!” He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t saying anything. And more and more blood just kept pouring out, soaking the grass. “Why did you do that? What’s wrong with you?” he asked Wash.  
  
Had he snapped? What was it about Epsilon that was so important to him that he had to kill one of his teammates? He thought he heard Donut exhale and focused on his teammate again. “No, Donut! Come on, stay with me, Donut, stay with me…” He laid a hand on Donut’s shoulder, turning up his helmet to look at Wash. “Don’t just stand there,” he pleaded. “Help me…”  
  
And Wash came ever closer, his slow steps making him appear even more dastardly. When he finally stood over Simmons, he had just enough time to register how huge the Freelancer looked from a kneeling position before Wash flipped his pistol grip and bashed him on the side of his helmet. He felt a sharp pain, and then it was like he didn’t feel anything at all.  
  
\---  
  
When he came to, his bionic eye was broken. Everything looked slightly blurry through his organic eye, and his head was killing him. His arms were stretched out above his head, but when he tried to move them he realized they were being held immobile. As he struggled more, the grip from the hands holding him down increased, and he knew he shouldn’t have felt that much through his armor… unless…  
  
The floor was cold against his back, the atmosphere of the room chilly on his skin, and he knew. He was naked. He was naked and being pinned to the ground in what looked like the chamber beneath Red Base. It was humiliating and degrading and shameful and thousands of other synonyms, and Simmons felt his skin begin to burn as he realized the indignity of it all.  
  
He was scared. He couldn’t see. His heart felt like it was about to leap out of his chest, and his panic only intensified when he heard a familiar voice speak from below him. “Where is he?”  
  
 _Wash_. It had been  _Wash_  who had done this to him. He was clearly insane now, if he hadn’t been so before. He tried to kick out, aiming his feet for where the voice had come from, and improbably, two more hands came to grip at his ankles, wrestling his legs back down to the floor. “God damn it, let me go,” he said, and predictably, his voice cracked from fear.  
  
“Not until you tell me where he is.” Wash’s voice was hard, unyielding, and Simmons knew not to expect any sympathy.  
  
Simmons tried to struggle again, but this time, two more hands came down to push down on his torso, keeping him from moving. Four of the hands were gloved, he could tell, but the two around his ankles were bare, skin caressing skin as he writhed. “What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted. Who else was it that was in there with them? Was one set of hands the Meta, waiting to eat him alive? Was the other set Lopez, devoid of his programming?  
  
“When Caboose told me you had the bases here, I knew you got this projector room,” Wash explained. “It shouldn’t have gone into your hands – who knew what your sergeant would create if he was left this room to play in. But now…” Simmons blinked a few times and tried to force his still-working eye upwards, and sure enough, two steel-and-yellow helmets were staring down at him. “It’s incredibly useful for my present purposes.”  
  
“What do you want?” He wished his voice hadn’t shaken that much.  
  
“All I want is for you to tell me where Epsilon is.”  
  
“And then what?” Simmons asked out loud. He could practically smell his own fear.  
  
“And then I’m going to take him back. I need him, Simmons, and Caboose took him from me.”  
  
Simmons swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. He had to stick to his guns, even though he was vulnerable. Maybe he could talk some sense into Wash, make him see that he didn’t need to go chasing after the AI. “I can’t tell you where they are,” he said quietly. “I have orders. From Sarge.”  
  
“You can’t tell me?” The question sounded almost amused. “I can make you do whatever I want.” The hands around his ankles lifted his legs into the air, and the gloved hands on his torso came up to replace them.  
  
Simmons wrenched his eyes shut from embarrassment as he was bent in two, knowing the kind of view Wash was getting from him. “No, don’t, please,” he babbled, losing control over his mouth.  
  
“Tell me where they are, Simmons.” And unceremoniously, a blunt finger shoved itself inside him, reaching up for his one vulnerable point.  
  
“No, no, God, no,” he groaned. The sudden stretch felt like burning, and the awful pressure against his prostate was forcing his body to react; in no time, his cock was hard, and he could feel it throbbing with need. This was humiliating. It was humiliating, and it was torture.  _I’m not here,_  Simmons thought, trying to get away from the pain, trying to find a safe place in his own head.  _This isn’t happening, I’m imagining my pain as a white ball of healing light…_  
  
Wash’s other bare hand slapped his face, and he was back in the moment, owning up to the horrible pain of his sphincter and the involuntary reaction of his cock. “Where are they?”  
  
He slipped back into his own mind, into his safe space, and Grif was there, holding him, smoothing his hair, laying kisses on his neck, telling him it would be okay. But then he was brought back to reality as a hand gripped around his cock, with too much pressure, and began pumping him furiously. “God, no, stop, it hurts, it  _hurts_ ,” he moaned. He knew, were it not for the hands holding his ankles and wrists, he would have been thrashing under the sensation as soon as it had started.  
  
“Tell me where they are.”  
  
“No, no, God…” He wanted to scream, but he was sure no sound would sum up how foul this experience was. His body was reacting against his will, this was fucking torture, and he wanted to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but being violated, forced to the brink by someone who had obviously learned how to do this somewhere, someone who thought this was okay to do to someone…  
  
“Where are they?” Wash yelled, so forcefully that spit flew out of his mouth to spray Simmons’ abs. His voice was deepening with each repetition of the question, as if the situation wasn’t already frightening enough without the Freelancer turning into a demon.  
  
“No, no, I won’t, I…” His body wanted release, wanted this to be over. His head knew that if he gave in, if he came from this, he would feel like it was his fault. His heart was reaching out to Grif for forgiveness. And he hated himself as he fell over the edge, spilling himself over Wash’s hand.  
  
And then it got worse. Wash continued to stroke his spent cock, every movement on it abrasive to Simmons’ heightened sensibility. The finger inside of him pulled out suddenly, and Simmons whimpered at the loss, but there were two fingers at his entrance next, wet, cold fingers. “You know where they are. Now why don’t you just tell me?”  
  
“Oh, God, no, please, stop, please…” Whatever he would have asked for got cut off in a half-scream as two of Wash’s fingers thrust their way inside him again. And he really did scream, the sound ripping his throat as it tore its way out of him, when Wash’s fingertips curled and hit his prostate yet again, stroking it in a way Simmons could only describe as evil.  
  
“I’ll stop,” Wash said, continuing to work his lubed fingers inside Simmons as he let go of his cock. Simmons sobbed in appreciation for a few brief seconds before the hand returned, this time covered in the same slippery lube as the fingers that were inside him.  
  
“No, stop, stop, it  _hurts_ , God…” Simmons could feel everything: the betrayal of his body beneath him, the way his muscles worked against the hands holding his limbs, the tears leaking out of his organic eye at the pain _pleasure_ **pain**  Wash was forcing through him, the humiliation, the indignity, the fear, the liquid fear running through his veins, the hoarseness in his throat as he tried to stop his own screaming, the sharp fire of every stroke on his abused cock, the dull spark of every touch against his overworked prostate.  
  
“I’ll stop once you tell me where they are.  _Where are they?_ ” And his frenzy as he worked on Simmons only increased.  
  
Every second of the torture served to make Simmons even more afraid, even as his body was becoming more and more aroused. If Wash had been capable of this all along, what was going to stop him from snapping and killing everyone once he figured out where the rest of them were? “I can’t, I won’t, I can’t, God, make it stop,  _please_ ,” he whimpered. He couldn’t do that to Grif. He couldn’t face himself knowing that he would be the reason Grif would end up dead, and he could face up to almost anything as long as he knew Grif would be all right. He wouldn’t let this maniac near any of them, not when they could get hurt, not when he could take the brunt of this on himself.  
  
“I’m going to make you tell me, Simmons,” Wash said, his voice dangerously low in volume and tone. “I’m going to wrench it out of your pretty little mouth, make you moan it out. And when you tell me, you’re going to come with me.” His voice was becoming more breathy with every word. “You’re going to see what I do to them, see what happens when you take him away from me. I’m going to make you come, Simmons, I’m going to make you watch…”  
  
And Simmons screamed as his second orgasm in five minutes took him with a ferocity he hadn’t expected, sobbing at the awful feeling of overstimulation and being drained too dry to function. His throat was raw, his stomach was sticky, his cock was now doubly sensitive, and he whimpered as Wash’s fingers left him one more time. He allowed himself to breathe for a few minutes. Maybe he would stop now. Maybe he would get the hint that he wasn’t going to say anything. Maybe he would leave Simmons in peace to pick up what was left of his shattered dignity, let him leave Valhalla and try to find Grif, Sarge, and Caboose on his own…  
  
For a moment, it seemed like Wash had left; there was no hand around his cock, no fingers inside of him. Simmons let himself breathe, trying to relax against the hands holding his ankles above his chest, before he realized that whatever had just happened, Wash hadn’t even gotten started. Something larger than his two fingers was pushing against Simmons’ sphincter, and the incoherent babbling started again. “No, no, please, anything, just not this,  _anything_...”  
  
Wash pushed the head of his cock inside, entering as slowly as possible. How did he know that it would hurt him so much? Every micrometer of Wash’s length was like an invasion of his privacy, another fracture in his dignity, another pound of humiliation to lay on his shoulders. “If you tell me, I will stop.”  
  
“I can’t,” Simmons tried to say, but then Wash’s hand was reaching for his balls, pulling them forcefully away from his body, and he had to scream. At this point, almost no sound was coming out of his throat, but he had to say something, had to hope that Lopez was out there getting his backups online, or that the Meta would come in and try to assassinate Wash – all three Washingtons. “It hurts, God, Wash, God…”  
  
Saying his name only made things worse. Now, in addition to the cock that was balls-deep inside of him and the hand that was keeping his package away from his body, Wash’s other hand came back to Simmons’ cock and stroked it lightly, almost lazily. The slight sensation was still enough to make Simmons cry out from the pain. “Tell me where they are.”  
  
“I don’t know – Wash!” The Freelancer had nearly pulled out, then slammed back inside him, hitting his prostate roughly on the way. Even the pleasure hurt, and he was ashamed to admit that he was still physically aroused by this. He didn’t want to be inside this body. He wanted to be in a place where everything was beautiful and nothing hurt, a place where Grif would hold his hand and stroke his back and let him sleep spooned up in his arms, a place where he could be safe and not feel so violated from so many angles.  
  
“I know you know something. Now  _where are they?_ ” Wash continued his slow pace, a feeling that Simmons would have found torturous even if it had been Grif –  _no, no, Simmons, don’t, don’t bring Grif any further into this, this isn’t Grif doing this to you, this is Wash_  – “Tell me where they are.”  
  
“No, Wash, don’t, I can’t…” But he wanted it to be over, Wash had promised it would all be over as soon as he knew what he wanted. He didn’t want his body to betray him again, didn’t think he would be able to withstand another orgasm in so short a time.  
  
Wash’s cock inside him rammed straight into his prostate, and he began sobbing involuntarily at the raw pain of the pressure against that overstimulated spot. “It’ll all be over soon, if you just tell me.”  
  
And as Simmons felt that next nudge against his prostate, he knew. He knew that Wash was doing this intentionally, was enjoying seeing him break beneath him just like Epsilon must have fallen apart in his mind. And, more importantly, Wash knew Simmons had to give in. If he didn’t fold sometime, he would die like this, he knew, and another few strokes of his cock, another tug on his balls, another set of furious thrusts inside him broke down his defenses completely. “It’s in the sand. The sand, it’s in the sand,” he sobbed out, all too aware of his treason to his teammates, his body’s treason to his mind.  
  
The most horrible sound started coming from Wash’s throat, and after a few torturous seconds Simmons realized it was laughter. “Where is it? Did they give you coordinates?”  
  
“No, Donut was the one who knew the coordinates, Donut… oh, God, Donut – Wash!” Something the Freelancer had done had turned the bend from pain to pleasure, but Simmons thought he was about to be sick as he realized that the man whose cock was anally violating him was the same man as the one who had just murdered his teammate in cold blood.  
  
“Nngh – fuck…” This was the first time Wash had shown any signs of losing control over himself, and when Simmons hazarded opening his organic eye, he could see the Freelancer’s head thrown back, his mouth contorted into an O as his thrusts became more erratic. His hand came off of Simmons’ cock to grope at his thigh, and then the other hand mirrored the first, gripping Simmons’ legs so hard he knew there would be bruises there for weeks to come.  
  
Then Simmons could feel the Freelancer’s cock pulsing inside him and knew Wash was coming. There was no sign of it on his face besides a faint twitching of his eyebrows, no sound coming from his throat except for an exaggerated sigh, and Simmons hated him even more for his composure, for treating this like it was any run of the mill encounter. And when Wash pulled out, he whimpered at the sudden feeling of emptiness, feeling dirty now that he had the other man’s cum inside him, feeling even dirtier knowing that he was still on the knife’s edge of arousal.  
  
Simmons knew better, this time, than to assume that Wash would leave him alone, and sure enough, a sticky hand was coming up to grip his hair, the other hand smacking him across the face. “Where is it? Did they give you a name?”  
  
“I don’t know – I don’t know…” And Simmons was sobbing uncontrollably. Even though it was over, it still wasn’t over; he still felt the hands on him, the cock inside him, and he knew that somewhere, in the back of his mind, he would feel like that forever. “An energy source – something about restoring Epsilon – I don’t know…”  
  
Finally, Wash appeared to be satisfied. The fist in his hair released, and Simmons’ skull came back to knock on the ground sharply. “I should have known,” was all Wash had to say to the information. “Coordinates?”  
  
Simmons sighed. “Probably somewhere on our computers.” It was over, it was finally over, and he should have felt relieved, except for the fact that his cock was still painfully hard and his body still needed to orgasm one more time. “Please, Wash, please,” he begged one last time, finding the strength to half-heartedly resist against the two pairs of hands still holding his limbs in place.  
  
“Please what?” Wash snapped his fingers, and the doppelgangers let go of Simmons’ ankles.  
  
His legs were so tired from being held aloft that they slumped to the floor, and he let out a little cry of pain at the sudden shift in his insides. But even with all the abuse he had gone through, he still needed a release. “Please, I need to come, please…”  
  
“I’m sorry, did you expect a  _favor_  from me?” And at another unseen command, one of the doppels pulled a wire in Simmons’ back, causing his bionic arm to lose the connection to his brain. The other doppel let go of his organic wrist, but when Simmons tried to move his arm to go back down to his side, he realized that instead, it was cuffed to the floor. When he tried to move his legs, he got the same response.  
  
“No, Wash, please, I’ll do anything…” he begged again, staring at the Freelancer as he pulled his bodysuit back on. He heard little hisses as the doppels disappeared from the room; at least it was only the two of them now.  
  
Wash only looked back at him with disgust. “Rest up. We’re leaving here as soon as I can find the coordinates.” And then the Freelancer walked up the ramp that led back to the surface, and it was just Simmons alone with his thoughts. He rolled over onto his side, his entire body sore from the abuse he had just taken, the cuffs around his wrist and ankles chafing against the bruises the doppelgangers had left there.  
  
But what really pushed Simmons over the edge was what he saw once he rolled over. He now knew where the mysterious lube Wash had used had come from. A brown helmet was lying upside-down on the floor, its insides filled with black sludge, and Simmons sobbed brokenly, retching at the realization that he had just been violated with his own teammate’s insides.  
  
There was never going to be a clean, good place in this world for him again.


End file.
